Some Grow To Catch Them
by Lexikal
Summary: A one shot. Hotch thinks about the talk he had with Perotta at the end of "Natural Born Killer" 1x8 and gets some much needed advice from Gideon.


**Title:** Some Grow to Catch Them by Lexikal

**Spoilers:** Season 1, episode 8 ("Natural Born Killer")

**Author's Note:** I've long been interested in the scene where Hotch is speaking to the serial killer Vincent Perotta in this episode, and their talk at the end that implies Hotch grew up in a violent household. This is a one shot, based on the end of that episode, with a brooding, slightly melancholy Hotch. Takes place in season 1, shortly after the events of "Natural Born Killer".

**Rating:** T

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It was raining. Hard. Rivulets of water hitting the windows of his office like tiny little fists and draining down like tears. The sky outside was already bruised purple, and would quickly be navy, and then black. The rest of the team had left hours ago.

Hotch wasn't ready to go home yet.

Why had he spoken to that killer? Why? He could have said nothing. Not that he cared if Perotta knew that not everyone resorted to violence just because they'd grown up with it. He was just curious as to why he'd said anything,_ period_.

"_You were just responding to what you learned, Vincent. When you grow up in an environment like that, an extremely abusive and violent household, it's not surprising that some people grow up to become killers." His voice had been smooth, calm. _

_Perotta had seemed intrigued, almost. "Some people?"_

"_Sorry?"_

"_You said some people grow up to become killers."_

_Hotch couldn't remember if he had nodded, or not. But he could remember his response. "And some people grow up to catch them."_

And that had been that. Perotta had been led away and he had come home... but he hadn't been able to shake that conversation. Forget about it. Why hadn't he, Aaron Hotchner, become like Perotta? How many nights had he spent in relative darkness- both literally and figuratively- trying to figure out why some people became violent; others, crusaders? Why some abused children developed attachment disorders and seemed to lose their consciences, the very essences of what could loosely be described as their souls, while others kept going and going... sometimes dying at the hands of their abusers, but never faltering in their love for others while still alive.

Hotch knew the statistics. Not the way Reid did, not in an encyclopaedic way, but he knew enough. The younger the abuse started, the closer the relationship of the child to the abuser, the duration, the severity, the presence or lack of support people or mentors... all these factors weighed heavily on development and outcome, and could be said to be indicators of risk. Indicators, things to look for, to watch... but not guarantees. There were no guarantees when it came to souls.

There'd even been cases of children from the same family, with the lesser abused becoming UnSubs and the more severely abused... _fighting back_. Retaining their compassion. Their dignity. Their humanity. _Somehow_. How illogical was that?

It made no sense. No rhyme or reason. There were risk factors for violence, but no guarantees. And Aaron Hotchner had spent years pondering the nature versus nurture debate. When he'd been a prosecutor for the District Attorney, his main goal had been to make his case. Lock up the bad guys. It had been intellectually stimulating, but not like profiling. And it hadn't offered the same philosophical and ethical challenges. Being a prosecutor had been relatively easy...a prosecutor's sole purpose, for better or worse, was to prosecute.

A profiler's purpose was to profile, to get inside the heads of monsters and figure them out. And you couldn't do that without looking at the world through their eyes.

And it was by looking at the world through their eyes- by _having_ to look at the world through their eyes- that the world itself shifted and changed. And was born again, anew.

Did good even exist? Did evil? Was it all just survival of the fittest; a slow, painful, impersonal weeding out of genes over time? Evolution in the strictest Darwinian sense? Were they screwing with the cosmic plan, doing this job?

He already knew what Reid would say. Reid would say no. Because even if UnSubs weren't evil, if their actions were morally neutral, if morals and ethics themselves were merely the stuff of fairy tales, well... UnSubs were just animals, of course, members of Kingdom Animalia. More aggressive than most homo sapiens, maybe, but that would either, ultimately, prove to be beneficial and the more violent humans would eventually reign supreme, or they would burn themselves out like viruses. Only time would tell.

And he already knew what Reid would say about their jobs as profilers: that profilers, like UnSubs, were _also _part of the natural order of things. And that, ultimately, profiling would either succeed, as an entity, a way of behaving and viewing the world, or the genes that pre-selected for the profiler's mentality would die out.

But we would never know the answer. Not in this life time. Maybe never.

Hotch picked up a glass on his table, drained the golden liquid. It burned his throat, but it warmed his stomach. Rye. A little warm, but still...

"You're still here," The voice took him by surprise. Gideon.

Hotch was sitting in the dark, behind his desk, drinking alone.

Gideon turned the lights on.

"Just... wasn't ready to go home yet. Thinking." Hotch said, slurring the words a little more than he would've preferred.

"Thinking about Perotta?" Gideon asked earnestly, but his eyes were shining. Warm. Hotch nodded. Gideon knew him too well.

"I-I'm thinking about why we are who we are. Why two people..."

"Why two people who both go through their own personal Hells can turn out so differently?"

Hotch nodded again. Poured himself another shot and gulped it quickly.

"Say, like... the difference between you and Perotta? How he could come from abuse and violence and become a killer, and how you came from the same background and became a protector?" Gideon asked, the corners of his mouth tweaking. Hotch nodded again.

"I-I never told you about my past, Jason." Hotch said flatly.

"Aaron, I'm a profiler. It's what I _do_."

"I just...it's_ haunting_. How easily things change. Some stupid decision you make at some important juncture... is that really all that stands between us and them?"

Jason Gideon eased himself down into the seat in front of Aaron Hotchner's desk and pointed toward the bottle of Rye. Hotch nodded and produced another shot glass. Like one of Reid's magic tricks. Gideon filled the glass and took his shot.

"You'll make yourself crazy asking yourself that question, Aaron. Believe me."

"I know. I realize that. And I know, despite Reid's statistics, that nobody will really ever know the answer... whether this is some divine plan, whether everything was set in motion to happen precisely this way the moment of the Big Bang and it's all just a butterfly effect, unstoppable, a domino effect... all _fate_. Or if there is free will, somehow, miraculously, some dimension of the soul that is incomprehensible, that gives us the freedom to choose..."

Gideon laughed a little. This was the Aaron Hotchner he knew, that so few got to see. During the day Hotch was quiet, but still waters did, indeed, run deep. Hotch was also drunk. A perfect opportunity to get the usually taciturn agent to express himself.

"So... your father. He...?" Gideon trailed. He had a pretty good idea, but he wanted to hear this from Aaron.

"He was a lawyer, a prosecutor. Like I became. Used to beat me black and blue for the tiniest infraction. Looking at him the wrong way. Making too much noise with my fork, you know, if it scraped against the plate at dinner... an A minus on a test, things of that nature. He also drank a lot. Bottled everything up, then when nuts when he imbibed. For some reason he left Sean alone."

"And you're drinking_ now_," Gideon said earnestly.

"So are_ you_," Hotch shot back, taking another shot. The room was start to tilt and spin lazily now, like he was on a carousel.

"Yeah, but my father _wasn't_ an alcoholic. And I was _never_ beaten. And I am _not_ drunk right now," Gideon listed these facts off on his fingers. Hotch stared at him.

"You're comparing me to my father, then," Hotch said flatly.

"No. But I think you want me to," Gideon said, not unkindly. "You can't- and won't- ever be able to wrap your mind around the free will versus fate debate, so the question is always there, gnawing away at the back of your mind. Am I like him, ultimately? If I am, _when_ will it reveal itself? Seems to me that it would be easier just to unmask and get the fear over and done with."

Hotch stared at the bottle of Rye. Thought about what Gideon was saying. Even drunk, it made sense. More sense than he wanted to admit. He pushed the bottle of Rye away, sighing heavily.

He'd throw it out tomorrow.

"Why not now?" Gideon asked. Aaron stared at him for a moment. He was unaware he'd voiced that thought. Finally he nodded.

"Let me give you a drive home, Aaron," Gideon said in a dulcet tone, reaching out and snagging the glass bottle of golden brown liquid from the dark mahogany desk. Hotch nodded again. They got up, and walked out of Hotch's office, and Hotch locked the door.

"I still have no idea if this is all fate or free will, or some strange hybrid of the two," Gideon said as they passed a garbage bin. Gideon let the bottle drop into it, oddly satisfied by the sound of the heavy glass hitting the bottom.

"But I do know one thing."

Aaron stared at him.

"You'll _never_ be like your father."

-FIN-

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Yes, this is a one shot, which means... _no more chapters_. Go read some of my other fics or peruse the site now! Oh, and if you liked this, **please review!** - Lexikal


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